* * *
He's been watching a lot of old movies lately. There's not much else to do late at night when he can't sleep, and AMC's programming department has been on a roll: Kelly's Heroes, The Searchers, Some Like it Hot. He doesn't much care for this new "future classic" thing they have going on, which is just a flimsy excuse to show more recent movies, although he did end up watching The Big Lebowski for the hundredth time the other night, so he can't fault their expanded format too much. Still, he prefers losing himself in different times, different places, the further removed from his real life, the better. For just a few hours each night he can get caught up in someone else's story and forget about his own. At least, that's the theory anyway.
Last week, he watched a midnight airing of The Philadelphia Story all the way to the end. He'd never seen it before and couldn't turn it off until he found out who Katherine Hepburn ended up with. He didn't much care whether it was Cary Grant or Jimmy Stewart, as long as it wasn't the guy she was supposed to be marrying, the guy whose name and face he didn't recognize. He realizes that sitting in the dark in the middle of the night over-identifying with fictional scenarios may not be the healthiest behavior, but considering the whole thing was triggered by one of his increasingly frequent bouts of insomnia, he figures that's the least of his problems.
Which is why it isn't surprising to him that today's snowstorm has him thinking about Humphrey Bogart.
It started when she came over and perched on his desk, smiling conspiratorially in that way she has, and asked him, "So what did you do with it?"
But actually, he supposes it goes back a little further than that. Really, it goes back to Dwight.
Since this morning, Dwight has been going on and on about his superior preparations for weather emergencies, listing in detail all the snow supplies he keeps in his trunk all year round, like some kind of insane boy scout. It's almost as if Dwight himself somehow willed the storm to hit further south and hours earlier than expected. Now, it's 7:20 p.m. on Thursday, the 29th of December, and instead of enjoying the start of their long holiday weekend, everyone is stuck in the office waiting until the roads clear up (everyone except Phyllis, who had escaped just in time in the passenger set of Bob Vance's truck). The only consolation is that Dwight is stranded along with everyone else. He'd announced his departure with a flourish at precisely 5:00, only to return to the office stomping mad at 5:06, having discovered that the trunk of his car had been completely and mysteriously cleaned out.
Jim may or may not know something about that.
He'd have included Pam in his plan, but when the idea came to him, she was in the middle of an intense discussion with Roy. Being an expert at eavesdropping without looking like he was eavesdropping, Jim had gathered that they were arguing about the Anderson family Christmas party tonight. Pam had told him last week (with an ever-so-slight roll of her eyes) that they'd postponed it so they could go skiing over the holiday when the slopes were less crowded. She'd also told him that she didn't really want to go, explaining that she was already "a little Christmased out," though he's heard many a story about Roy's family over the years and he suspects there's more to it.
He needs no more proof than the look on her face when it started snowing earlier in the day. He and Pam had snuck into the conference room together, where they turned out the lights and watched it fall and fall. She'd seemed far from disappointed then. In fact, if Jim had to choose a word describe her emotion at the time, it would be delight. In the dim light, with a backdrop of flurries against an indigo sky, she'd smiled and she was beautiful. He'd imagined her in black and white, a flickering image on a silver screen. He'd thought about the Christmas card still sitting in his desk drawer. He'd thought about kissing her.
Those thoughts had been interrupted, though, as so many thoughts were, by Roy, tromping up from the warehouse to talk to her alone. His eyes had fallen square on Jim as he emphasized the last word. He's noticed Roy looking at him that way a few times since the Christmas party. Whether it's because he understands the true meaning of the teapot gift, or because he blames Jim for being on the hook for an iPod, he's not really sure. He prefers to assume the latter, for a number of reasons.
Pam had followed Roy out of the conference room to her desk, and Jim had returned to his with every intention of getting back to work. But Dwight, with his usual impeccable sense of timing, had chosen that instant to brag once again about the all-weather gear in his trunk, and Jim was feeling just bitter enough to take his frustration out on his favorite target. All he had to do was wait until Michael called Dwight into his office to discuss ideas for the upcoming leadership seminar. With both of them occupied, and Pam still busy with Roy, it was easy to swipe Dwight's keys from his desk and slip out of the office unnoticed. At the time, the snow was merely a pretty inconvenience, but that had been hours ago. Now, it's a full-on snowstorm, thick and heavy, and Jim has suddenly found himself in possession of one of the few guaranteed safe means of getting home in the foreseeable future.
And Pam knows it.
"Come on, Jim," she says sweetly, leaning toward him just enough so that he can smell the new fruity lip gloss her sister gave her for Christmas. "We both know you've got Dwight's stuff stashed around here somewhere."
He looks over at Dwight, who is on the phone trying to convince the police that an immediate investigation into the theft of his possessions takes precedence over the many weather-related emergencies they've got to deal with right now, and that it's not his fault so many people are ignorant and unprepared. Pam stifles a giggle, her eyes twinkling with the shared secret Jim hasn't yet admitted.
He wonders if she's playing him, if on some level she knows the effect she has on him, and whether that level is shallow or deep. It is then that he thinks of Humphrey Bogart, wondering the same thing about Ingrid Bergman as she begged him to hand over the letters of transit that would allow her and her husband to escape the Nazis and flee to Portugal.
"Jim?" Her voice brings him out of the picture show in his mind, back to the present. "Come on, tell me. You know you want to. Please?"
She's looking at him expectantly and if he doesn't give up one secret now, he'll end up giving away the other. So he relents.
"Oh my god," he says, standing up with an exaggerated sigh. "Fine. Follow me."
She claps excitedly at her triumph and his stomach clenches at the thought that something so simple can make her so happy.
He leads her to the stairwell, down to the bottom floor, through the lobby and to a door that takes them to the back of the warehouse. There's a storage room there behind a sliding metal door where he's hidden the entire contents of Dwight's trunk -- tire chains, traction cables, three expanding snow shovels in different sizes, a bottle of antifreeze, a large ice pick, a pickaxe, a full tool chest, a wind-up flashlight, several flares, an extra car battery, a set of heavy-duty windshield wipers, blankets, emergency rations and various other odd-looking tools, some of them practically antiques, with functions and purposes neither of them knows. There, laid out on the cement floor is everything she and Roy need to get his truck through this storm and to a warm house full of post-Christmas cheer (or whatever passes for it in the Anderson family).
She wraps her arms around her, though it's not that cold in here, and surveys the gear, gently shuffling the chains around with the toe of her shoe. She looks somewhat impressed, but he can't tell if it's due to his well-timed prank or the insane extent of Dwight's safety precautions.
"Wow," she says.
"Yeah. Can you believe he carries all this stuff around in a Trans Am?" he asks with a laugh, making the easier assumption.
"No, I mean, with all this stuff you could have gone home hours ago," she says. "Why are you still here?"
He thrusts his hands into his pockets and avoids her eyes. He can't bring himself to admit the truth -- that he doesn't mind being stuck there as long as she's stuck too -- so he gives her a noncommittal shrug.
"Listen," he begins, and he can't believe he's about to say what he's about to say. "You guys should just take what you need. You've got Roy's thing tonight and... the weather will clear up soon. Next week we can figure out some way to return it to Dwight. Stash it in the vending machine or something." He lets out a brief, mirthless laugh.
"You don't... have somewhere to be tonight?" she asks, her voice soft and timid. He wants to believe the hesitation he hears is rooted in a jealous fear that he might, in fact, have somewhere to be, but he knows that's just wishful thinking.
"Well, I did have a hot date with Carmen Electra, but we've been going out for a while now and she's starting expecting certain things, you know? I'm just not sure if I'm ready to make that kind of a commitment at this point in the relationship." She laughs and he smiles, though he's not completely joking. Except when he says Carmen Electra, he really means Katy. "Besides, it'll be more fun to stay here and watch Dwight stew."
"You sure?"
He's not sure at all. At least Rick and Ilsa had Paris. What do they have? Pretendonitis? Office Olympics? A non-date on the roof? Swaying? Sure, there was that one kiss at the Dundies, but she was drunk and "We'll always have Chili's" doesn't quite have the same poetic ring to it.
"I'm positive. Now you crazy kids get out of here. Have fun. And you'd better come back with some good stories on Monday. I mean, I want tales of drunken fist fights, Beesly. Don't let me down."
She looks at him for one last wordless reassurance, which he gives with a nod and a half smile. Then she's off to find Roy in the warehouse to tell him the news and he's left alone in the small supply room to catch his breath and admonish himself for being such a total pushover.
He puts on his scarf and jacket and borrows a pair of work gloves from Darryl. Soon, he's kneeling in the cold, glistening snow helping Roy put a set of Dwight's traction cables on his truck. Pam is crouching next to him with the flashlight, leaning in close to the truck to avoid the wind. Her thigh brushes gently against his arm, and even through the layers of winter clothes they're both wearing, he can feel the heat radiating from her body, so near to his. He sneaks a few peeks at her while he's pretending to know something about lever locks and clamping mechanisms. The streetlight casts a glowing halo of light around her as small white flakes fall on her shoulders and stick in the frizzy curls that cascade out from beneath her pink knit cap. The biting cold has left her cheeks flush and her eyes full of moisture, and she's still beautiful.
She catches his eye and silently mouths, "Thank you." The words are almost visible in the puff of air that escapes her lips, traveling in between the snowflakes, down to the ground. Despite the fact that Roy is on his back on the hard, frozen asphalt, less than a foot away, he thinks about kissing her for the second (or is it the third?) time that day. He should feel guilty about that, probably, but he's too cold and too tired to care.
The tires are a little big for the cables, so the fit isn't ideal, but somehow they make it work. Roy's good with his hands, but Jim stops that train of thought, before it leads to uncomfortable images of what Roy might be doing with those hands later. Unless, of course, he gets too drunk at his sister's, but Jim can't even bring himself to truly wish for that, because it would make Pam unhappy. That's the thing about love, he thinks. It turns otherwise ordinary, confident men -- men like Rick Blaine -- into sentimental, irrational idiots. As he watches Pam and Roy drive away, waving as enthusiastically as he can manage, he thinks about the end of the movie and wonders if he'd have the strength to let her get on that plane. He honestly doesn't know what he'd do, and the thought terrifies him.
When they are gone he heads back up to the office to wait out the storm, brushing the snow off his shoulders and soaking-wet knees. As he steps onto the elevator, he swears he can hear the sound of a tinkling piano off in the distance, in the parking lot, or somewhere just beyond.
Story Notes:
This is an answer to BeckySue's "The Weather Outside is Frightful" challenge, with a twist. I was just thinking about snow and Casablanca and this kind of came together in my head. Also, I have to say that when I put out a call for a beta reader, I never dreamed I'd be lucky enough to get a response from the likes of the lovely and talented Talkative, who has helped me greatly with this. If you like it, you owe her some thanks as well. Go and give her some nice comments on her fabulous stories.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.
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